


Taking Out

by ETNMystic



Series: Mystic's Original Works (Possibly Transferred From My Other Accounts On Other Writing Sites) [37]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-05
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 20:46:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26295106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ETNMystic/pseuds/ETNMystic
Summary: Based on this Tumblr writing prompt:“Taking out” can mean: a date, dinner or murder. You do all of them.(CW: Murder, suicide)
Series: Mystic's Original Works (Possibly Transferred From My Other Accounts On Other Writing Sites) [37]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1726699
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	Taking Out

They all assumed I was not.

Such an innocent face would never.

It was the same as always; meet them in the park, then dinner, then the fun began.

Men fall so easily into the delusion that they are in control. They want to help a sweet young virgin become an experienced young woman and my innocent face proves to be their downfall.

This one in particular was my favorite.

A young man; head of the press. A womanizer well-known throughout the city. Mr. Robert Smith was his name.

He approached me at the bench I always sat. Asked me if I was lost. Offered to show me around the park. We took a nice stroll, skipped some rocks. He told me about himself, his past, let a few secrets.....slip.

The truth-telling mint I offered him as a token of my gratitude made it so easy to get him to talk. And talk he did. Several instances of forgery, various affairs, swindling his employees into working longer for less.

And I recorded every detail. But such a sweet face wouldn't know to tell anyone, I'm sure.

Then he offered me dinner. Took me to the most luxurious restaurant in the city. We dined rooftop; he had a few glasses of vin rouge, a virgin cocktail for me. I listened as he spilled more secrets. He told me how terrible his wife was in bed. I stared at him in confusion. Because I had no clue what that meant. I asked him how someone could be bad at sleeping, as well as how he knew she was a terrible sleeper. Worked like a charm. His pupils grew. The feminine naiveté is the strong man's kryptonite.

After dinner, he took me back to his apartment, and the action began. He took me to the bedroom, took his fingers, traced the curves of my body. I pretended I was frightened, but I loved every second of it, because I knew he was in hook, line, and sinker.

I took out my purse, had my special handkerchief at the ready, sneezed; the powder went right into his face. He fell under in an instant.

Took him over to his desk, had him write out his will, and signed off as the witness. He so generously handed control of the press over to his sweetheart, moi. I asked him where he kept les somnifères. Like an obedient dog, he trotted over to the desk, so enraptured by me at this point. I then asked him where he kept his strongest spirits. Before we finished our night, he so loyally helped me set the scene up to frame his wife. How he hated her, so convinced she was having an affair behind his back.

Once the scene was set, we shared one last set of drinks together; I, another virgin cocktail, him a strong spirit with a cocktail of his stronger somnifères mixed in. He so graciously got into position, I grabbed a pair of gloves, grabbed the carving knife his wife had used to carve their meat for dinner last night. Once he was successfully sedated, I drove the knife into his heart, of course with the gloves on and gently. A lady shouldn't leave too much of a blood trail. Once I saw the blood begin to flow, I pulled the knife out and set it atop his chest. Once I was finished, I tossed the gloves into the washing machine and the dryer.

The next day, his wife was arrested and charged with spousal homicide. She insisted she was innocent, but all signs pointed directly to her. With my new control of the press, I subtly made jabs and spread secrets that the husband had told me. And just like that, his wife lost her reputation.

Do I feel bad about what I do? Sometimes. There was one man I murdered after Mr. Smith who I found out had no money, leaving his wife and child penniless. I anonymously transferred some of the fortune Mr. Smith had kindly willed to moi. I also sent her some meals to hold them over while they found a better place to live.

I'm no monster. A murderer? Perhaps. A seductress? Certainly. But a monster? Absolutely not. I made a mistake with the one I killed after Mr. Smith. My modus operandi is simple; I seduce the rich and immoral with my innocence and naiveté. Once I get them back to their place, they so graciously will their estates to their sweetheart, the name varied every time, we would then set the scene to frame their wives, he would drug himself up enough to knock him unconscious. I'd find a knife his wife had recently used, and soon enough he was dead. The evidence always pointed to the wives, irrefutable, undeniable. But sometimes I make mistakes. Fortunately for me, the poor man was adamant about me not framing his wife, and I complied. We then made it look like a suicide.

Why do I do it? Why do I seduce and then murder the rich and immoral men? Simple. Karma. The rich who choose to be immoral receive their just desserts and the wealth goes to the poor, the deserving, those who actually need it.

It's a demanding job, but hey. Someone's gotta thin out the one percent.


End file.
